Sparta (39 page)

“There's a million of them in there,” Anderson said.

“I'm calling in air,” Conrad said.

“Roger.” Anderson slid down against the doorjamb, his rifle raised.

Conrad crouched, his back against the wall, to call the CO. The radio jittered with static, and he raised his voice. “Dingo Six, Dingo Six,” he called, “this is Dingo Three Actual.” He called in the request, putting his hand over his other ear to block out the gunfire and the static.

Anderson was turned away, facing the roof. Conrad was down on one knee, his head bent, listening. And then he was lying on his back on the floor and something heavy was pressing against his neck. He was looking up at a man's silhouette, and he could feel a foot braced against his jaw. A shadowy muzzle was pointed at his head.

The moment stopped. It bloomed around him, pure and vivid, like joy. He was aware of everything, the whole nighttime sky exploding beyond the roof, and Anderson, unaware, three feet away, and the dark stairwell. He felt everything: the heavy, abrasive surface against his jaw, and he was aware of the trigger. AK-47s were clumsy and inaccurate, but it wouldn't matter at point-blank range. It would take only the slightest crook of a finger, the merest, slightest pressure, for this rifle to fire. All these thoughts ran through his body like quicksilver. He was thinking about the Cobra pilot he'd just called, and also about what he was going to do, which was to grab the muzzle and shove it aside, kicking hard to bring the man down. And in that long, frozen moment before anything happened, he heard the sound of the rifle going off.

He waited for what came next: pain or darkness, and he wondered why the AK-47 sounded like an M16. Then everything started up again, and something was crashing down on him like a mountain, liquid heat coursing over him. Conrad was already rolling away, and the man was down, and Anderson was leaning over Conrad, saying,
“LT, you okay?”

Conrad put his hand up to his face: he was covered in blood. It wasn't his. Amazingly, he could see beyond Anderson's head to the night sky, filled with stars. Everything was still going on. The tracers were still flashing past, though right then Conrad could hear nothing.

He scrambled up onto his knees and picked up the radio. His request had been granted, the Cobra had been diverted, and the pilot was calling.

“Dingo Three, Dingo Three,” said the pilot, his voice crackling. “This is Bushmaster Eight, over.”

“Bushmaster Eight,” Conrad said, “I've got you Lima Charlie. How me, over.” Lima Charlie stood for loud and clear.

“Roger, got you same,” said Bushmaster Eight. “I'm checking on station with ten Hellfires and guns. How can we be of assistance?”

Conrad had heard the chuddering clatter of the Cobra over the radio, and now he began to hear it in the distance, approaching through the night.

“Be advised,” Conrad said. “I have numerous insurgents in a building.” He gave the grid coordinates. “Building is three-story, north side of street, near the intersection of Peter and Jennifer, how copy?”

“Good copy,” said the pilot. “Searching now.” The whacking rattle of the rotors grew louder. After a moment he said, “I copy sparkle at that location.” He read the numbers again. “Do you tally my mark?”

The ghostly glow of an infrared spotlight illuminated a building two doors down. It was a cone of pale green, nearly white, shining down on the wrong side of the street. It was lighting the building where third squad was holed up.

“Move your sparkle north,” he told the pilot, “one hundred meters. Other side of the street.”

“Roger,” said the pilot. The glow shifted to the roof across the street. “How tally?”

“You're on target,” Conrad said.

“We recommend we engage with rockets, then follow up with guns.”

“Good copy,” Conrad said.

“Dingo Three Actual, are we cleared hot?” the pilot asked.

“Bushmaster Eight, you are cleared hot,” Conrad said.

“Roger,” said the pilot. “Coming in hot.”

The Cobra let loose with a deafening, triumphant roar, lengthy and sustained, and the entire building disappeared into a slowly unfurling gray cloud lit by sulfurous red glares. The sound of it enveloped the night. Conrad felt his pulse beating in rhythm with the pounding thunder. His whole body was beating: wild survivor's glee.

“Yes!” Anderson yelled.

Roiling smoke billowed up, mounting against the dark sky.

*   *   *

Hours later, the Humvees drew up inside the wire, back at the firm base. Conrad dismissed the exhausted men as they dismounted. Anderson walked past him.

“Anderson,” Conrad said. “I owe you one. Thanks.”

Anderson took off his helmet. His face was black and filthy, his eyes pale and liquid against the grime. He shook his head and grinned. “That's not how it works, LT. We don't owe each other out here. We just do our jobs.”

He was right and not right. Conrad owed Anderson that wild survivor's glee; he'd never forget it.

Now Conrad thought of Anderson swimming out into the blue lake in Minnesota. Heading across the water, going past the raft, nothing beyond but silence, shivering ripples of light. Anderson's hands would work in the water. Even if he couldn't bend the fingers, he could swim.

*   *   *

When Claire called back that afternoon, Conrad told her what he'd done.

“Fantastic!” she said, her voice full of excitement.

“Want to have dinner?” he asked.

He was certain he wanted to see her, but he hadn't worked out the rest.

First of all, there was the problem of venue: he didn't want to go to Claire's place and deal with the Roommates of the Sacred Towels. But it wasn't ideal bringing her to Jenny's apartment, either, where all he could offer was the rack, the foldout sofa in his sister's living room. But even if the venue weren't a problem, it raised the more prickly (so to speak) question, which was whether or not he could raise himself. Sometimes his cock worked and sometimes it didn't, which meant he didn't want to risk it.

“What if I come there?” Claire said. “I haven't seen Jenny in ages. I'll come over and bring Chinese takeout.”

“Sounds good,” said Conrad. “You bring, I pay.”

“Perfect. See you later.”

Conrad hung up, wondering about sex. Was she hoping to spend the night? Because she couldn't. The only thing worse than having wild sex on an iron-framed torturer's device, with his sister on the other side of the door, her pillow over her head, was being unable to have it.

Okay,
he thought,
focus
.
Don't go there.
He changed into running clothes and headed off to the reservoir.

That evening, when the doorbell rang, he heard Claire's voice on the intercom, rough and staticky.

“Hello there!” she called cheerfully. “It's me!”

Conrad felt a lift, and he went down to meet her. He could hear her coming up as he went down, and they met on the third flight. She was running up toward him, her face raised. Her glossy hair was tumbled around her shoulders. She was wearing a blue jacket and carrying big white bags of takeout, and smiling at him.

Conrad took the bags and put his arms around her. He felt the strong curve of her back, her soft breasts against his chest. She was out of breath. He felt her breathing and glowing against him, her ribs lifting. She smelled sweet and tangy.

“I'm glad you're here,” he said. He felt himself stir and harden against her and wondered if he should ask her to spend the night. Though he didn't dare; the little fucker couldn't be trusted.

Jenny was waiting in the doorway. When they came up, she threw her arms around Claire. “I'm so glad to see you!”

Conrad got a kick from women hugging. There was something sweet and mysterious about it: it came so easily to them, and they were so good at it. Claire and Jenny talked quickly and excitedly, affectionate, fizzing gently like little kettles. He wondered if they were friends on their own, apart from him.

Jenny brought out plates and they opened a bottle of wine. The little white cartons were full of clumped white rice, stewy messes of duck and chicken and pork, slithery vegetables.

“Oh, my god, I am starving,” Jenny said. “This is so great.”

She was sitting sideways on her chair, her knees pulled up close to her chest. She'd changed into a red T-shirt and gray sweatpants, but she still had on her earrings: tiny kites, bright red.

“I like your toenails,” Claire said.

“Twilight in Moscow,” Jenny said. She spread her toes wide like a monkey. The nails were deep purple.

“Twilight in Moscow?” Conrad repeated. “How about Late Afternoon in Namibia? Breakfast in Fallujah?”

“I know, really,” Jenny said. “The names are bizarre. Who thinks them up?”

“The ad companies,” Claire said. “Interns on pot. Did you do your nails yourself?”

Jenny shook her head. “A Thai place on Broadway.”

“Why do you do that?” Conrad asked. “Why do women get their nails done?”

Jenny grinned. “It's someone taking care of you. You lie back and feel glamorous. You feel like a movie star.”

“I'll give you one sometime,” Claire said. “A mani-pedi. You'll love it.”

Conrad looked dubious. “I'll let you know when I'm ready.”

“One of our clients, a guy, got a pedicure. They took off too much cuticle and went too deep, and it got infected,” Claire said. “He got blood poisoning. He was on crutches for months, and he's still on a cane. He could have died.”

“The shame,” Jenny said. “Dying of pedicure.”

“You've got to give him credit,” Conrad said. “The guy risked his life. He put it out there.”

“True,” Claire said, licking her fingers. “So, what's the class you're taking?”

“Macroeconomics,” Conrad said, and shrugged. “What can I tell you?”

“I can hardly get my mind around economics,” Claire said, “let alone macro.”

“You develop models that show the way national economic systems work, figure out the way unemployment, inflation, savings, income, all that stuff works together. To produce the macro-vision.”

“Better you than me,” Claire said.

“I love this stuff,” Jenny said. She sucked a finger. “Short ribs may be the perfect food.”

Claire put down her fork and sighed, licking her lips. She had taken off the blue jacket and was wearing a black tank top and tight jeans. Her feathery earrings made a little fluttery cascade against her neck. “So,” she said, “how are you, Jen? How's work?”

Jenny shook her head. “Bad. I'm going crazy.”

“Why?” asked Conrad. This was news to him. Why hadn't she told him?

“My boss,” Jenny said. “Ted Waits. He does this passive-aggressive thing. If we're in a meeting, he won't look at me. If I make a presentation, he doesn't pay attention. Sometimes he gets up and starts walking around, so everyone looks at him instead of me.”

“What a nightmare,” Claire said. “Is he like that with everyone else?”

“No. Only me,” Jenny said.

“Did he hire you?” Conrad asked.

“That's the thing,” Jenny said, pointing her fork at him. “No. I was hired by this totally cool woman, who left. Waits doesn't even like me.”

“Bad,” Conrad said. “You can't let him undermine your authority. You have to stand up to him.”

“How?”

“If he stands up, look at him and ask him if there's something he would like to say.”

“I can't do that,” Jenny said. “He's my boss.”

“Gotta show him your balls,” Conrad said.

“That's the problem,” Jenny said, nodding. “I haven't shown him my balls.”

She and Claire began to laugh.

“You have to learn how to deal,” Conrad said. “There will always be shitty bosses around. You have to know what to do.”

Claire leaned toward him. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and in the hollows at the base of her neck were little blue shadows. She was sitting in that impossible girl way, one thigh crossed over the other, her feet facing different directions. She leaned toward him and put her hand on his arm.

“You're right,” Claire said. “Until you get out of school, you're so used to having people around who will help you. You assume everyone will. But in the real world it's not like that. It was a shock for me to realize it. You're way ahead of me. You've been living in a different kind of world.”

“Yeah—well,” Conrad said. “Always assume someone's out to get you. Always be ready to use offensive strategy. Call in air support. QRF.”

“What's QRF?” asked Jenny.

“Quick reaction force,” Conrad said. “If you need help. It's like a Mayday call.”

“Why is everything in the military called by acronyms?” asked Claire.

“Just to mess with your head,” Conrad said.

“What I thought,” Claire said. “It's all so insular, the military. Everything is kept from civilians. They keep everything from us, but I kind of have the feeling they also blame us for not understanding them. But how can we?”

“It's tribal.” Conrad shrugged. “You're not part of it. And no, civilians can't understand. And we can't explain. It's not sayable.”

“Because you don't want to say it?” asked Claire. “Or because you can't.”

“Probably both,” said Conrad. “Probably we don't exactly want to, because what we know, we've earned. But even if we try, we can't. It's like intraspecies communication.”

“Very nice,” Jenny said. “What are we, dolphins?”

“Don't be testy,” Conrad said.

“Don't be smug,” Jenny said.

“But, Con, you can tell us whatever you want,” Claire said. “You know that.”

“Thanks,” he said. This kind of talk never went anywhere. There was nowhere for it to go. He got another bottle of wine from the kitchen.